


desiderium

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Her every sacrifice was worth it knowing it was for the betterment of the Republic. Every night she didn’t come home so she could catch up with paperwork. Every event she couldn’t attend with Orson because there was a late-night conference to participate in and his work, his achievements came second always no matter how beautiful, how elegant the results. Every vacation she didn’t take during recesses because she needed to prepare for the next session and the next and the next.They all proved her devotion.And now it was all for nothing.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Katana4544](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Katana4544/gifts).



Mon rarely found time simply to enjoy her quarters on Coruscant. There was little time to devote to frivolity, to relaxation, when her work for the Republic called and though Mon occasionally regretted that fact, the pain in her heart was assuaged by the knowledge that she did good for her people—for all the people of the galaxy. Her every sacrifice was worth it knowing it was for the betterment of the Republic. Every night she didn’t come home so she could catch up with paperwork. Every event she couldn’t attend with Orson because there was a late-night conference to participate in and his work, his achievements came second always no matter how beautiful, how elegant the results. Every vacation she didn’t take during recesses because she needed to prepare for the next session and the next and the next.

They all proved her devotion.

And now it was all for nothing.

Padmé was dead. The Jedi, slaughtered, traitors today when they were heroes yesterday. So many people she’d known? Gone. It was too much.

Too much.

Chancellor—no, _Emperor_ now, he was the _Emperor, best to remember that, Mon_ —Palpatine’s words rang in her head. She didn’t think they’d ever pry themselves from her mind. Oozing into every corner of her psyche, they plagued her thoughts, wormed their way into her gut and curled up there, poisoning her from the inside.

How could the Republic fall so quickly? So thoroughly? She and Bail and a few others had seen something coming, but this? Not this. Never this.

How did a person fight this? How could anyone fight this?

Leaning against her balcony, she held a glass against her temple. It was nearly empty now, the chill gone, mingling with the heat of her skin. The ice had long ago melted, diluting what little brandy remained. What was once amber colored was now a sickly yellow-red and Mon couldn’t bring herself to drink it.

Footsteps startled her from her reverie and though she didn’t gasp, her heartbeat raced. Brushing her hand down the front of her robe, she dragged a deep, ragged breath into her lungs. A half-wild thought formed in her mind. _The Emperor knows. He’s sent someone. I’m…_

“Mon,” the voice belonging to the footsteps said. The rough, Mid Rim lilt, carefully modulated to match more accurately the ‘refined’ Core worlds’ accents, lifted her spirits. If she could believe in one thing still, it was him. He would rail against the stupidity of this day, tell her she’s right to be concerned, remind her that they would get through this.

She gasped and bent in half, pressing her forehead against the metal. Her eyes prickled and watered, so slight that brushing the moisture away hid the evidence entirely. “Orson,” she said, her voice as steady as she could make it under the circumstances. Given her experience with doing just that, she could safely say the effort was a good one.

It just wasn’t good enough. Not with Orson. He could’ve been a politician if he’d wanted to be or if he was willing to curb his disdain for people who lacked vision—which, compared to him, was everyone.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

His hand found the back of her neck. It was warm against her spine, a comforting weight as his thumb brushed back and forth over the fall of her short hair. She wanted to allow herself to have that comfort, but she couldn’t. Shrugging out from under his touch, she turned.

Before now, she wouldn’t have believed her heart capable of shredding into yet more pieces.

But before now, too, she hadn’t ever seen Orson Krennic in an Imperial uniform.

Oh, the cut was the same, the color even. Pristine white and perfectly pressed, the uniform was so similar, painfully so. He looked so much like the Orson she knew. If not for the new rank squares that adorned his chest, she might still believe everything would be okay. Red and blue, they drew her eyes and held her in thrall.

“Mon,” he said again, tipping her chin up with his index fingers. It was almost impossible to tear her gaze away, but he repeated her name and she managed finally to look up at him.

And there he was, exactly the same. Sometimes the blue of his eyes shaded darker when he was angry or upset, but they were clear and bright. Mon’s entirely life had shifted in the last rotation and Orson was carrying on just the same as before.

How? How was it possible?

His hand cupped Mon’s cheek, dry, smooth. They were the hands of an architect, a clever man, a devoted member of the Republic’s—the _Republic’s_ —military.

She no longer recognized it as belonging to the man she’d known. And though the ridges of his knuckles were just the same as she remembered them when she covered them with her own hand, she couldn’t recognize them as such.

His work for the Republic consumed him almost as surely as her own did, so much so that he was sometimes absent for many weeks at a time. He was devoted. To the Republic.

Or he had been. What would he devote himself to now? The Empire? Her? _Don’t be ridiculous, Mon. Look what he’s wearing_.

“What is it?” he asked. His mouth formed a curious, pursed frown. Brows furrowing, his thumb skimmed across her cheekbone.

“Nothing, darling.” _Stars, he doesn’t even realize, does he?_ Mon closed her eyes, shook her head, gripped Orson’s hand tightly in hers. It was all over now. She pulled his hand from her face and kissed the flat of his wrist, his tendons prominent against the thin, soft skin there. The scent of his cologne tickled at her nose, cloying where before it had been pleasant to her. For a moment, it seemed to permeate everything, the sparkling scent of caroberry, the spiced tang of tava fruit, the smoky heat of something that smelled like it belonged in an alcoholic drink instead.

Even once she released his hand, the cologne permeated the air, one final invasion after a day full of them.

Mon was already sick to death of it.

“Nothing at all,” she repeated and failed to believe it.


End file.
